


On The Skin Of Your Soul(mate)

by alchemicals



Series: O, Sweet Soulmate [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artist Draco Malfoy, Depression, Draco draws flowers on his arms, Fluff and Angst, Harry writes memos on his hands, M/M, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, together they are cute - and depressing - as fuck, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 21:52:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13749948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemicals/pseuds/alchemicals
Summary: Based on a Tumblr prompt:In this AU you can write on your skin in pen/marker/whatever the fuck, and have it show up on your soulmate's skin as well.5 snapshots of the journey Draco and Harry take towards finding each other, complete with meddling Parkinson's and Lovegood's.Fluff, smut, and angst ensue - starring a devious, crafty Draco who's somehow gone and fallen in love with his unknown soulmate.





	1. First encounters

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, another prompt fic! Yo, guys don't hate me for not finishing A Step In Time - I really wanted to try writing a soulmate fic, so :D Don't forget to subscribe for more content! And leave a kudos <3 
> 
> p.s this work is part of a series called o, sweet soulmate where i will be trying out the many, MANY soulmate prompts that tumblr has to offer, so subscribe to that for updates!

**Harry**

Harry Potter is honestly not proud of the fact that he has not left his house since two months ago.

Although he can't be sure - seeing as he hasn't looked up since he woke up this morning - he's pretty sure his bedroom now resembles a pigsty, and he hasn't showered since...well, since Parkinson last came over.

Harry sighs, rolls over in his bed and pushes his face into his pillow. Everything in his room smells pretty dubious these days, but Harry isn't sure he's quite ready to care, yet. Besides, sometimes Kreacher comes in, armed with house-elf magic and a wrinkled expression, but Harry always ends up messing up his room in the end. 

These days, all Harry feels is a buzzing anxiety, combined with high-level anger issues and mood swings. He's fucked, but then again, hasn't he always been? Harry's pretty sure he's been fucked since Voldemort decided to _Avada Kedavra_ his parents like they were roast beef, leaving him an orphan and shoved in with the fucking _Dursley's_.

Parkinson certainly takes joy in reminding Harry of his certain fucked-upness anytime she pays a visit - which is surprisingly often. Harry scowls into the crook of his arm - the one he's thrown over his eyes in an attempt to block out the afternoon light -because if he didn't know any better, he'd think Parkinson is worried about him. Which is absolutely idiotic - she hadn't had any qualms about when old snake-face had been seeking Harry out, had she?

Harry doesn't know when this strange alliance with Pansy Parkinson started, but he can tell you now; it was most certainly not his idea. Chilling with the bint that tried to betray the Wizarding World isn't really on Harry's to-do list.

Actually, come to think of it, nothing has been on his to-do list for a good few months.

But apparently, Hermione's absolutely heads over heels for her soulmate - eurgh, it still sounds so odd when Harry says it in his mind - which is weird in itself. She ignores Harry and Molly's cries and pleas, insisting that her girlfriend really 'does mean well'.

Harry has yet to see any of this so-called 'meaning well'. So far Parkinson has been nothing but a nuisance, ruining Harry's plans to stay inside forever and slowly starve to death. She  _cooks_ for him (you can imagine Harry did not greet her first homemade meal with open arms) and  _runs him baths_ , all with the practiced ease of someone who has done this before.

Harry groans, tries not to think what he means by 'this.' 

 _Taking care of depressed war survivors,_ his mind still supplies traitorously. Harry ignores it, and also ignores the rumbling of his stomach. He'll eat, eventually, when he's really hungry and the pain of an empty stomach drives him out of bed. Or maybe Harry'll wait until Parkinson comes around, bearing ratatouille and pasta sauce as presents.

The whole soulmate thing is weird, though. Of course, it is. Since they were in 6th Year, everyone had just assumed Ron and Hermione would be together forever, that once they both turned eighteen, that fact would just be confirmed and that would be that. But once Hermione had turned eighteen, there was already a mark appearing on her arm. The wrong person, the wrong time, and altogether...not Ron.

_Are you 18 now?_

The way soulmates work has always been odd, Harry muses to himself. If they write on their skin, the same mark appears on yours, almost instantly. Harry thinks - or, he thought, he tries not to think too much these days - that Parkinson had just written those 4 words on her arm every day until her soulmate replied.

Which, to be fair, is only slightly sad. Not that Harry is in any position to judge.

_Yes. Who is this? I'm Hermione Granger._

There had been a pause for about a few days, in which Ron had time to find out, and withdrew in on himself. Molly had burst into tears when Harry had told her - always the bearer of bad news, him - and Ginny had turned icy towards Hermione. Which made no sense, it most certainly was not her fault she already had a soulmate. After 4 days, the next message came:

_Pansy Parkinson._

Harry hasn't cared to try to find his soulmate. He's been too busy over the last two years going to Ministry gatherings, helping out charities - generally being a good Wizarding World Hero. Then there were the Malfoy trials - the ones that sort of didn't happen after Malfoy had been found in his bed at the Manor, barely breathing, wand limp against his chest. But Harry tries not to think about that - granted, it's part of the reason Harry tries not to think at all.

Anyway, his soulmate hasn't bothered reaching out to him, either, even just experimentally. Once, it had made Harry want to punch something, but now, here at Grimmauld, depressed and alone at home, he accepts it. Why the fuck would anyone want someone has broken and messed up as him?

Harry sighs again and rolls over. After that, he's too tired to close his mouth, so Harry lies there, open-mouthed against his pillow. He closes his eyes and breathes out.

If someone had told him a year ago that the post-War glow would eventually turn into a rotten, chaffing thing that would eat up his insides, Harry's sure he would have paid a first-class ticket to the Janus Thickey Ward. 

Now, Harry just wants to die alone, and in peace. He opens his eyes, ignores the image of dead bodies floating in pools of blood still swimming in front of his vision. He'll have to pick up his last batch of Dreamless Sleep, soon.

Then, Parkinson waltzes into his bedroom with a barely disguised, "What the fuck," and a bag full of what Harry presumes to be pastries from the bakery next door. She smells of expensive Parisian perfume and dark chocolate - something light and feminine that sort of reminds Harry of Ginny. 

"What the fuck have you done to yourself, Potter?" 

Harry only watches her through half-lidded eyes. He lets out a groan and watches her grimace unpleasantly. "Go'way," he mumbles, stifling a yawn.

Parkinson snorts and smooths down her dark bob. She places the bag on Harry's bedside table and sits gingerly beside him on the bed - it sags slightly under her lean frame.

"I most certainly will not 'go'way', Potter. You're filthy and depressed, and I'm not sure which is worse."

Parkinson's crimson nails drag across his duvet, and she fixes her dark eyes on Harry. He tries not to squirm, which is ridiculous. Parkinson shouldn't intimidate him - and she _doesn't_.

It's the thought that he's seen more of her in these last two months than Harry's seen his friends that makes him feel all tangled up inside. It's not a good feeling.

"You really are a miserable old fuck, aren't you?" She whispers, placing thin fingers on his bare arm. Harry - surprisingly - lets out a bark of laughter. It's rough from not enough use, but Parkinson still smiles at the sound. "No word from your soulmate, I see." 

At that, Harry's mood deflates real quick. He shrugs and places his arm out for Parkinson to inspect. He hasn't checked in over a week - at this point, he's sort of scared, scared of what he won't find there.

"I never knew you were talented, Potter." She quips, and Harry looks at her. "Right here, see. It's a pretty drawing, too, of jasmine plants."

Harry's never drawn a day in his life, and here Parkinson is, telling him that there is a patch of jasmine plants on his wrist. Harry rips his arm from his grip and blinks, chewing on his lip. He's stalling, yes, but he doesn't... doesn't want to be disappointed.

But then again, Harry's made it so far through life being disappointed by everything that happens in his life, and Harry closes his eyes for a moment. He brings his wrist to his face and opens his eyes.

Panic grips at Harry's heart in an unyielding grip and his breath falters. Harry licks his lips, throat suddenly dry.

"...What?"

Parkinson opens her bag from the bakery and pulls out a donut. "What, didn't you draw that?"

Harry shakes his head. She pauses, donut halfway to her open mouth, and suddenly her eyes widen. "Oh, fuck."

All Harry can do is nod. His whole body feels numb, numb with the realisation that his soulmate actually exists. That they aren't dead. That they are, indeed, very much alive, so much so they draw beautiful flowers on their wrists in ballpoint pen.

But then Parkinson is jabbing him with a pointy object. "Quick, you idiot, take my quill and fucking write back." She waves a self-inking quill at him. Harry reaches over and grasps it in trembling, unsure hands. He tries to breathe, tries to go through exercises Luna had him learn.

They don't help.

"What do I write?" He asks.

For the first time in forever, Harry hates how gruff his voice is from not speaking to anyone for a good few weeks. But, Merlin, his soulmate is a fucking  _artist._ One who's never seen fit to write to him - on him? - before. He tells Pansy this, but she only shrugs, seemingly bored with his idiocy.

"Maybe they finally have something to be happy about. Maybe they're free. Maybe they just wanted to fucking draw in the middle of a business meeting, I don't know, Potter. Just write something back!"

Harry ignores her, heart pounding, sweat pooling at the base of his back. He feels something stir inside him - something he had sworn not to allow to resurface, ever again - but he's powerless to stop it. He licks his lips and writes a 7/10 underneath the drawing. Really, it's brilliant, but he feels the need to annoy whoever the fuck it is on the other side.

"Is that all you're writing?" Parkinson huffs and chews on her donut. It's jam, and the red goo almost spills onto her fingers when she bites into the sugar pastry. "You're a terrible flirt, Potter."

He snorts. "You asked your soulmate if she was 18. Everyday. Until she responded."

Parkinson chooses to ignore him, which Harry is fine with. He's soon absorbed into his own little world, eyes glued to the spot underneath his comment.

_Is that all you're giving me? Fucking Wanker._

Harry sucks in a breath. His heart pounds in his chest like an idiot, and he's not sure why his whole body is convulsing.  _Fight me, you tosser,_ he writes.

_I would if I could find you. I'd punch your bleeding teeth out._

The thing in Harry wriggles in approval, and his toes curl up. Fuck! He has a  _soulmate._ A cheeky one, but still. 

Harry draws a dick on his palm, complete with childishly drawn cum spurting out from the tip. He doesn't notice when Parkinson quietly takes her leave, his eyes are too busy roaming over his conversation with his soulmate.

_'I would if I could find you.'_

Had that been an invitation or just an addition to the mock-threat?

Harry breathes through his nose, draws his arm in close, and allows himself to spiral into his odd thoughts.


	2. Mistakes and I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco thinks that when he drinks he gets a little too aggressive - why won't his soulmate write him back?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that updates are a bit sporadic (y'all you don't understand this shit takes TIME) Also please do not be worried if I randomly sprout up with February Ficlets during like April of November, I'm just making my way through the prompts list without the deadline. I might do a few random couples and friendships before I go back to just doing Drarry for the fics.
> 
> Tell me what you think about that!

**Draco**

 

Draco Malfoy hates both his bloody annoying owl, Dionysus, and his meddling, lunatic cousin, Luna Lovegood. They're as bad as each other, in his opinion. Nys won't leave Draco the fuck alone and chooses to stick his beak where it doesn't concern him - in Draco's  _hair._ If he weren't so heavy and tired from carrying nightmares in the forefront of his mind, Draco might be persuaded to hurt something - something being Nys.

Luna glances at him from the window ledge underneath the large French windows at the end of his room, her eyes soft and her dirty blonde hair flowing against her back. Against all odds and all reasoning, Draco can concur that his cousin is not, in fact, a hideous beast. 

Which, if he allows himself to think hard, Draco supposes make sense - she's his cousin, after all. He doesn't like to be reminded that the ethereal, aloof, sweet girl that rescues him from low-rank gay clubs was once in the prison underneath his very room. 

Draco clutches his rolling stomach and breathes out through his nose.

It's only Wednesday, and already he's had enough hangovers to make him wonder if he's slowly turning into his father. The thought, instead of uplifting him and making him feel bigger than Harry-bloody-Potter himself, actually crushes his windpipe with one foul squeeze.

He struggles not to throw up and shoves his head against the softness of his pillow. Draco has spent the last year dreaming of what will become of him once the reputation of the Malfoy name improves, and has even entertained himself with thoughts of being a lawyer with his own firm, or a well-respected businessman.

Now, however, in the early eves of Spring of the 2nd year after the war, Draco realises that whatever rubbish his father has been spouting at him is just that - rubbish.

Grief, lone and willing, takes over his frail body and Draco buries his head underneath his pillow and draws his duvet around his shivering body. It all hurts, hurts too much to be real. He closes his eyes and lets the feelings crash over him and drown the happiness the alcohol from the club had brought. 

It hadn't even been that - mediocre firewhiskey, at best. Maybe it's the bad alcohol that makes him feel this way - because the emotions are too much for Draco to comprehend.

Luna is silent all throughout his episode, and Draco can't figure out if he hates or loves her for it. 

He makes up his mind, pretty quick.

"I hate you," he mumbles into the sheets, and he means it.

He hates her very existence with a passion, hates the kind way she looks at him - an ex-Death Eater, someone who  _allowed_ her to be enprisoned like a criminal - as though he deserves it. He hates how she won't let him die in peace inside his room, alongside his acrylics and watercolors. 

Luna smiles - and Draco's hate builds. He dares not think about the other emotion that swirls rampant underneath that hates, something that feels almost like... _guilt._

"Of course you do, Draco. Would you like to paint with me?"

Draco only moans pitifully. No, no painting. Creativity is furthest from his mind, and Draco feels like if he paints he'll end up decorating the canvas with his puke. He's well aware that his usually-pristine hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat, and he smells like a pig despite the numerous cleansing charms the House Elves perform, but he can't seem to care.

Why should he? Everything that's ever made sense has just come crumbling down in a matter of years. Including his standing with Harry  _bleeding_ Potter.

Fucking Potter, coming to St Mungo's while Draco was in rehab, looking like he actually _cared_ and like his life was just so perfect, as though he was boasting to Draco just how put together he was while Draco was in a hospital for trying to kill himself.

Just like that, Draco feels his hate, guilt and annoyance surge together into something much more hostile, dangerous, even. Strangely, they meld into whispers in the voice of Lucius Malfoy.

_You're fucking worthless._

_Piece of scum, can't even kill properly._

_Dumbledore was an old man - he may have been powerful, but he was weak and injured and your hesitation makes you a failure._

_You went to bloody school with Potter and all you could fucking do was glare at him from across the Great Hall instead of slaughter him like the lamb he was._

_You. Are. A. Monster._

The words are hot, torrential rainfall in a rapidly rising tornado, and Draco moans into his sheets. They beat his skin so hard he feels as though he'll implode. Perhaps drinking to excess wasn't really the best idea ever. Draco needs to extinguish that burning pain, needs to lash out at someone who can't take it out on him.

He grabs a self-inking quill and returns under the covers, not noticing that both Luna and Nys have disappeared. Draco is too engrossed in stabbing at his arm, tearing the skin with black ink and splashing tears over his words.

_I hate myself._

_I hate you._

_Don't ever fucking try and find me._

_I'll slaughter you. Wring you 'till you're dead. Slice open your hopes and watch them bleed over your sheets. I'm a monster._

Draco's hands are shaking so much he hurls the quill at his door and wraps his arms around his knees. His breath comes faint but erratic on the bare flesh, the tears now cold on his cheeks as he lets himself spiral downwards.

Later on, when Draco isn't quite so intoxicated - both from alcohol and grief - he spends an hour on a drawing on his arm for his soulmate, complete with an apology fit for a king. All throughout this, though, his soulmate says nothing. Draco doesn't understand what this means, but he prays he hasn't fucked his whole life up. 

He doesn't hold his breath.

 


	3. Memories are Fond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry remembers the very first time his soulmate ever wrote to him - it's not what you'd expect. Also, Harry's forgetful, and Pansy needs him to remember his Healer appointment and their dinner with Hermione.
> 
> So he writes everything on his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if this will be readable or not but in case of confusion; the italics are Harry's flashbacks, and the normal text is a few months after Harry's last chapter, during those months Pansy has forced him to get over himself and start seeing a Mind Healer for the first time. 
> 
> ALSO, the flashbacks are written in past tense, in case it sorta confuses some people.
> 
> Don't forget to subscribe to O, Sweet Soulmate for plenty of soulmate fics, and subscribe to me? Pretty please?

**Harry**

 

_The boys of the Gryffindor 6th-year dorm were all fast asleep in their beds, unbeknownst to the turmoil of one Slytherin boy. All, but one._

_Harry - 16-year-old Harry - wrapped his arms around his knees and tried not to close his eyes. If he did, all he'd see were Malfoy's grey eyes as he crumpled to the ground, bleeding in long, arching strokes across the third-floor girl's' bathroom._

_If he did, all he'd hear would be Myrtle's screams of 'you killed him! My Draco, you killed him!"_

_He'd see Malfoy's pale hair spread across the white tiles, contrasting so much the strands glow blonde instead of near-white._

_And Harry'd made those mistakes before, anyhow - had closed his eyes, expecting sleep, but instead had been ambushed by strangling nightmares. He'd never make that mistake again. So he stayed up, mind racing, his thoughts on whether Malfoy was in the Infirmary or with Snape, treating to his wounds._

_Ron snored from the bed beside Harry's, and he let out a mangled sob into the crook of his arm. Why the fuck was everything going to shit, just when he'd thought it couldn't get any worse?_

_Coldness seeped through into Harry's bones and cut off his breathing with a harsh choke. He tried to breathe through his nose, but it was no use. His thoughts were too powerful, almost as though they were sentient beings ready to murder him with their mangled horror._

_Beyond Ron's bed, Seamus and Dean slept wrapped in each other's arms, and Harry's heart ached as he watched them snuggled together. They were another couple that everyone knew were going to be soulmates - other than Hermione and Ron, of course - and the very sight of them made Harry want to hit something._

_How come they got to feel the close embrace of one-another while Harry shivered in bed, yet still sweating with the covers thrown off of him?_

_Harry inhaled and reached across to the nightstand where his glasses and wand were. He grasped for a spare quill and closed the curtains around his bed with a quiet swoosh. Then Harry flicked his wrist and sent a glowing blue fire shooting up near the top of the curtains before he brought out his arm and gazed at the tanned flesh._

_If only he was 18, right? He'd be able to write to his soulmate and...maybe not feel so alone._

I really fucking hate myself,  _he wrote on his palm. He didn't really expect an answer - not really._

 _After a moment, Harry blinked. Words materialized in front of his eyes;_ I'm with you on that one. Now fuck off.  _Next to it, a very detailed prick was drawn._

_Harry stifled a quiet laugh and wondered at the lightness in his chest. Of course, he was fucking Harry Potter. When did the rules ever apply to him?_

_With that, Harry cradled his arm and went to sleep stroking the haggard script._

_\---_

"Come on, Harry, I didn't seek out Hermione as my soulmate for you to flake out on us the moment you have a chance."

Harry sighs and pushes his long hair out of his face as he regards Pansy through narrowed eyes. "Alright, alright, I'll come - stop your nagging." 

Over the past few months - after Harry's soulmate had had an actual meltdown - he and Pansy had grown close enough to call each other by their first names, and apparently, that gave the cow permission to try to order him about.

Harry huffs. He supposes she - out of everyone - has the right, she got him out of his depressive state at Grimmauld Place and helped him find a Healer that was alright about keeping the secrets of her clients.

"Excellent!" Pansy kisses his cheek, no doubt leaving a lipstick stain on Harry's skin.

She smells of expensive perfume and pats him on the shoulder, smoothing down her hair before she leaves with a swish of her designer robes. Harry almost instantly regrets agreeing to have dinner with the two utmost scariest women in his life right now.

Contemplating his life choices, Harry takes out a quill from his suit breast pocket and jots down the details of his first Healer's appointment and Hermione's dinner. 

After that, Harry forces himself to commit to the Ministry gathering and slides into the throng of important bodies. He's a long night ahead of him, and he can't allow himself to stare overtop the heads of everyone, trying to get a glimpse of white-blonde hair that he hasn't seen for ages.

His fingers graze the skin on his left wrist, and Harry tries not to think about both his soulmate and Draco Malfoy in the same thought span. He can't - if he does, he thinks his whole world will explode.

When Harry talks to Robards, he ignores the fluttery feeling he feels whenever he thinks he sees someone who could be Malfoy. It fucking pisses him off, but what else is there to do, other than sip at his champagne and mingle with old ladies who try to feel him up?

Fuck Malfoy and his ability to infiltrate Harry's every fucking move in life. Why can't the git just leave him well alone?

Why can't he leave Harry's damn heart alone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, don't forget to leave a kudos and subscribble <3


	4. Your touch on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco wants his soulmate's attention after 4 months of no contact - so he does what healthy young men do; he jerks himself off. But first - some foreplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for like, dying, but school exists so I gotta adhere to that, sadly. I've come here to escape the studying for a bit, though! Don't forget to leave a comment, kudos and perhaps even subscribe to O, Sweet Soulmate for more soulmate fics in the future.
> 
> ALSO, Sinéad is pronounced Shin-aid (it's an Irish name).  
> DOUBLE ALSO: Smut warning!

**Draco**

Draco hasn't heard from his soulmate in close to 4 months and, at this point, he's getting desperate. Luna says he should try to reach out first, but Draco can't help but think that she's completely batty. Even more so than he thought, he means. Reaching out first would put him in a position of vulnerability and just the thought of the possible rejection is enough to keep Draco's thoughts of picking up a quill to himself.

Though, that doesn't stop him from his art. Luna's helped him find a Mind Healer the last few weeks, and the weekly appointments have come to be a staple in his life - as well as his renewed love for his painting. Acrylics, watercolours, oils - Draco isn't picky. He needs to paint to function and has no idea how he's managed up to a few weeks ago to not even touch a paintbrush.

Now, Draco strokes acrylics paint across the pale canvas of his legs, intertwining colours together into a beautiful mix. Outside, it's dark, what it being 3 am and Draco still being awake, but he doesn't mind. He only hopes his soulmate is awake now, too, because Draco has to get up in a few hours to get ready for his appointment with Healer Sinéad at 9.

He's naked, and the soft light of the candle he lit flickers across his flesh. He breathes in deeply -  _Amortentia Aromas_ has always been his favourite brand - and mixes more paint into his brush with his left hand with his right slowly creeps up to where his prick lies, thick and heavy and throbbing against his thighs. Fuck, this shouldn't be so erotic - he's almost painted his balls pink, for Merlin's sake.

It takes Draco a while to see it, but when he lifts his hand up to push his long hair out of his eyes, the chicken-scratch writing catches his gaze.

_You're left-handed?_

Draco's heart palpitates dangerously, and he sucks in a breath. All of a sudden, his modest bedroom feels far too warm, and he shudders at the bead of sweat that rolls down between the blades of his shoulders. Fuck -  _Fuck,_ this is it! He didn't have to write first, after all - fuck you, Luna. Draco bites his lip and scrabbles for a quill, scathing remark quick on his fingertips.

But instead of insulting his soulmate's intelligence, Draco just writes; 

_Ambidextrous, actually._

He sets his paintbrush down and stares at the masterpiece he's done on his legs. Fields and fields of lavenders decorate his skin, start purple bringing out the bony veins in his bare ankles and feet. 

_That's beautiful. The painting, I mean._

_I bet you're beautiful._

If the guy keeps going like this, Draco's not sure he'll last. Already his balls feel tight, and his cock looks flushed and the slight shade of lavender he's got all over him. 

 _Are you naked?_ Draco asks - because surely his soulmate must be - if they can see Draco's body art.

It takes a while for them to respond.  _I am, now. Fuck, what I wouldn't give to see you, all spread out, paint coating your skin._

Draco blinks. What? His prick bobs to attention, now throbbing so hard it's almost painful. Precome drips from the tip, onto the field of lavenders, and Draco grips his shaft with too-hot, shaking fingers. His whole body trembles and Draco closes his eyes but snaps them open again to check his hand. The handwriting there is worse than normal - which Draco hadn't thought possible - as though his soulmate was rushing through something.

_I bet you're touching yourself right now. Merlin, I don't even know what you look like but I can imagine your fist around your prick, hard and leaking onto your fingers._

Draco doesn't know what's gotten into his soulmate but whatever it is, it's excruciatingly beautiful. His wrist stutters in its rhythm, and he jerks his hips upwards in time with the rising wave of pleasure building in his chest. His mouth falls open, breath hot and loud in the silence of his room as he closes his eyes. A tight whine emits from his lips as the wave builds and builds until it crashes and Draco cries out, loudly.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, because he's fucked. Well and truly in trouble - he's gone ahead and become fascinated with his soulmate. 

He brings his left hand to wipe the sweat dripping from his fringe and the dim light catches faded words on his palm. He reaches for his wand and casts a charm that will restore the words to full quality. Draco bites his lip to stop himself from screaming in excitement.

Because there, on the sweaty skin of his palm, his soulmate's Mind Healer's appointment time and the place are written clearly - the same Mind Healer Draco himself frequents. His limbs are heavy and his mind sated from the force of his orgasm, and he's covered in white ropes of his own cum...

But, Draco has a plan - oh yes, he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! (psst subscribble!)


	5. Found You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco find each other in the dingy waiting room of their shared Mind Healer.

**Harry**

 

"And you couldn't have rubbed one off in the shower,  _without_ including this soulmate of yours?"

Harry lets out a long, pitiful sigh. He knows he shouldn't have told Pansy what happened that night, with the lavender fields and the best orgasm he's had in a while, but he couldn't help himself. Pansy's grown to be one of the most important people in his life, and it had felt wrong to skirt about with her for a few days before he'd caved in.

Now, though, Harry is starting to regret his life choices. He pushes his hair back and grabs the hair bobbin Pansy holds out for him to tie his hair back into a messy bun as he tries to think of the right words to say.

"Well, no, because he was fucking painting near his dick and I could  _feel_ his arousal if that makes sense." 

Pansy shoots him an odd look, her dark eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Why won't you just admit you like him, Harry?"

He blinks. "Because I don't even know who he is. I can't just - just fall in love with someone I've never met all willy-nilly." He huffs and holds out a hand. " _Accio_ leather jacket." The jacket in question flies off the rail by the door and Harry shoves it on, glancing at himself in the hallway mirror.

Pansy had insisted on helping him get ready for his Healer appointment as afterwards he'd go out with her and Hermione on a dinner date and he had to be 'more presentable than a Hippogriff, Harry, honestly.' Harry thinks he looks too much like the gay Wonder-Boy the Prophet exposed him as, rather than the stylish, coltish manly male Pansy insisted he looks like.

"Who said anything about falling in love with him?"

Harry opens his mouth to tell her that she just bloody did, five seconds ago, and promptly closes it again. Because that's not quite true, is it? Pansy had only asked why he couldn't 'like' his soulmate. Harry scowls at his reflection. "Fuck off, Parkinson."

Pansy squeals delightedly and shoves him out of the way to comb through her dark bob with her newly manicured nails. "I don't know why you won't admit you're head over heels, darling. Every time I look at you, you're always smiling at something or other that he's said right. Drop your 'holy-than-thou' act, Harry, and go find him and fuck the life out of him."

With that, the bint nods briskly and pats Harry patronizingly on the head. "Keep in touch, darling. And for Merlin's sake, don't scare the Healer any more than you need to." 

She apparates with a sharp crack and a slightly mad giggle, and Harry is left in his slightly dark exit hallway, a deep frown etched on his face. He smoothes out his features - because Pansy's right, he can't afford to frighten Healer Sineád more than he has done - and does a bit of apparating of his own. 

Screw Pansy, she doesn't know what she's talking about. How can someone even possibly think of liking someone they've never talked face-to-face with? For all Harry knows, his soulmate could be a 40-year-old perv, just aching to find him and swallow him up. Harry snorts as he lands in the dingy alleyway by his Healer's office, dusting down his jacket and peering up into the early afternoon sky - fall in love, indeed.

He tucks a stray tendril of hair behind his ear and starts down the street. It's entirely Muggle, as Harry's Healer is a big fan of their 'way of life', as she put it. Personally, he doesn't understand how anyone could live so far away from where they were born and bred, but then again, he's been locked up in a cupboard for half his life.

Something twangs in Harry's chest, and he realises that he's so tense that his shoulders are practically by his ears at this point. He lets out a tired breath, closes his eyes, and opens them. No use dwelling on the past, as Pansy told him after one of his really bad relapses back into depression, it doesn't solve your problems, does it? Only creates more of them. Harry tries not to remember the fact that sometimes Pansy is smarter than him, Ron and Hermione combined.

The day is still young, with cirrus clouds drifting freely across the grey expanse of British skies, and Harry wouldn't have it any other way. He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose and watches the row of Georgian townhouses running along his left for that faint shimmer. Despite her claims to want a Muggle lifestyle, Sineád still Fidelius Charms her office, and she's allowed to do whatever the fuck she wants because she only specialises in people like Harry - those who are famous, and don't care the amount they have to pay for confidentiality. 

Harry's sure she makes a quick million, in Muggle money, if she'd bother to convert all her galleons. 

The shimmer happens around number 23 and 25, and when Harry blinks, number 24 Downing Street stands tall and proud, the ornate sign above its doors gleaming.  _Healer Mhic Gormáin - Private Practice,_ it says. It had taken Harry a good 3 sessions to actually remember how to pronounce the foreign, Irish name. 

Harry smiles to himself and jogs up the stairs to the front door and opens it up to a dark hallway. He takes one last glance back outside - at the lovely, fresh air he'll leave in favour of that 'I deal with mental illnesses' smell that Healers always have going on - before he shuts himself in. He makes his way past ominous ink-blot pictures designed to test the state of your mental health - they're moving in the most unnerving ways.

The waiting room is a small, white room at the end of the entrance hallway, lined with uncomfortable plastic chairs and piled high with old copies of  _Quidditch, Weekly_ and the  _Daily Prophet._ Harry doesn't bother to look at anyone else there and checks his watch -  for the first time in, maybe forever, he's early by around 15 minutes. So he sits down and closes his eyes, trying to steady his erratic nerves.

He doesn't open them, even when someone passes him to sit on the chair across from his. Harry hasn't had a proper sleep in days, always busy with this, that and the other. Pansy'll be furious with him, of course, but Harry can't find it in himself to care. His mind drifts, idle and wandering, and he wonders where his soulmate is. He has a quill, he thinks, somewhere in his jacket pocket, and it'd pass the time quicker to talk to whoever they are...

By the time Harry's managed to retrieve a Self-Inking quill, his mind is already made up. He goes to scribble some self-deprecating joke on the skin of his arm when something catches his eye. A delicate lavender flower is drawn on the inside of his wrist, and as he watches, two words materialise that make his throat clog up.

_Found you._

Frantic, and heart beating so loudly Harry hopes to Merlin that all of England can't hear it, he glances up to the seat across from him. Draco Malfoy quirks his lips and waves. A quill is tucked behind his pointed left ear, there's an ink smudge on the bridge of the man's nose and his fringe falls softly over one eye. The other one winks at Harry, and he swears his heart stops. 

"Malfoy?" Harry tries to whisper but his fucking traitor vocal chords sound like a frog's croak. "Malfoy...Draco - fuck.  _Shit._ "

Draco's eyes blaze with something fierce, something that sends tendrils of tender heat straight through to Harry's crotch. He inclines his head, as though inviting Harry outside. Harry is more than happy to oblige, even if he feels both vaguely sick and like his dreams have come true, simultaneously.

Because...fuck, Draco Malfoy is his  _soulmate._ Beautiful, gorgeous, sexy, pointy, stupidly attractive Draco Malfoy. 

They don't even make it outside before Harry's hands spread across the expanse of Draco's chest, hidden underneath a soft cream jumper and grey scarf. Merlin, Draco feels so warm and so pliant beneath Harry's fingertips. "How did you know where I was going to be?"

The blonde bends his head, and Harry inhales the scent of almonds and lavenders, his head swimming with lust and confusion and so much bloody  _want._ Draco noses the underside of his jaw, and Harry extends his neck, inviting more - more kisses, more sucking, more, more, always _more_.

"Unsurprisingly, Potter, you write little memos to yourself on your hand. I simply followed the trail." Draco smirks wickedly.

Harry snorts. Later, he'll ask about things that have happened months, years ago, and Draco will ask about something irrelevant that they'll end of fighting over, but now...Now Harry has a face - a beautiful face - to the fantasy man in his head. 

And  _God_ he wants to test so many things out, so many bruises and hickeys and claims, all on the skin of his soulmate.

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you guys so much for coming along with me on this journey, I hope you guys enjoyed exploring the idea of soulmates with me :D There will be a sequel to this - just a fun little thing showing Harry and Draco's lives together after they've moved into a brand-new house. It'll be called 'How To Buy A House'. 
> 
> ALSO Don't forget to subscribe to the series O, Sweet Soulmate (or bookmark it) for more soulmate content after I've finished A Step In Time!  
> ALSO, Go read A Step In Time (and bookmark that as well :D )


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